New Breed: DOG BYTE
by ForeverMATT
Summary: Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** New Breed: DOG BYTE

**Summary:** Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note:** I'm stoked to write something serious and dark, haha! (Written entirely while listening to ICP's Piggy Pie on a loop. LOL Strange inspiration, ne?)

_Three little piggies, to make a piggy pie.  
There's nothing like the sound when you hear a piggy die.  
I might choose a gun (NO!); I might choose an axe (YES!).  
The carnival's in town, come and get your piggy snacks!_

...

* * *

**INTRO**

Red, the essence of life, slipped through his fingers like syrup, thick and goopy. The warmth pooled in his palms and he began to tremble, a horrified and almost manic smile spread wide between his cheeks and a devastating sound came out with a choked gasp. Eyes wide and wet with the salty tears he could no longer contain, he stared down at the lifeless heap of flesh and gore at his feet.

So much blood, it hardly seemed real.

"It's-It's okay," he found himself whispering, kneeling before the corpse. He pressed a hand to the victim's cheek; it was still warm at this point. He took a deep shuddering breath and spoke softly, expression dulling to something less terrified, more nullified and almost blank. "Don't worry, momma. It's going to be okay." On his knees, kneeling, he curled his form over the female body, taking her head in his hands and cradling it into his lap. "Shhhh," he cooed, "I won't leave you alone to suffer, momma."

Trembling, he drew in air sharply before releasing his breath in a burst.

"G-Gonna get you safe, momma," he said reassuringly, slowly getting to his feet and grappling his mother beneath the arms so that he could drag her by her upper body. He took a timid and wobbly step back, testing his ability to move with her weight before taking a second step. And then a third, gradually growing more sure of himself as he continued. With time and a significant amount of struggling, he slowly made his way from the kitchen that doubled as a crime scene, through the hallway, and into the bathroom.

As careful as possible, he lowered his mother's upper torso to the ground and surveyed the damage that had been done. Coated in multiple stab wounds, she'd been disemboweled, her body nearly split in two, only held together by bone and sinew; her grotesque innards left a trail of breadcrumbs behind, though he'd tend to that later.

His first priority was taking care of the woman who'd meant so much to him in all his nine years of life.

Leaving her on the floor, he stumbled over to the bathtub and felt fatigue wash over him; he crouched beside the tub, clinging to a rim of porcelain in a dramatic effort not to fall over and pass out. One hand gripping tightly to the tub, his head resting against a bent elbow, he reached his other hand to the water taps. With a flick of the wrist, the water came spurting through gurgling old pipes before flowing more steadily, starting cold and growing warm as the seconds passed.

Almost as an afterthought, his eyes rolled down to look at the water swirling down the drain; he moved his hand from the tap to the plug, moving it to seal the vortex-like drain. Once that was accomplished, he let out a whoosh of breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The tub filled slowly; he let it run as he forced his tired self up into a standing position. One last glance at his mother's stilled form was all he spared before exiting the bathroom to gather supplies.

He trudged along, half-limping and half-stumbling, limbs feeling as if they were filled with lead. As if he was dragging slabs of concrete behind him. Going to the closet at the far end of the hall near the living room, he tore open the door and grabbed a white box with a little red cross on it.

A first aid kit. He smiled as he thought about the time he helped his mother put it together, explaining to her what they'd need to put in it... in case of emergency.

The smile vanished as the memory reached completion in his mind, now replaced by a cold, dark and unsettling reality. He ran his thumb along the handle of the first aid box in contemplation -rather, what should have been contemplation, though no coherent thought would stick in his mind long enough for him to accurately process it.

Shrugging off he matter along with the idea of thinking in general, he turned away and shut the door with a light nudge of his foot. Forcing his breath to come at calm even intervals, he made his way back to the bathroom, the filling tub, and his mother's foul-smelling mannequin-like corpse.

Setting the first aid kit on the sink, he reached over and turned the water off.

"Gotta... clean... you up, momma," he said, voice unrecognizable to himself, so much that he took a moment to look around, to see if someone else had been the speaker, only to find that he was alone, in terms of living, breathing, soul-having individuals of the household.

Slowly, he knelt before his mother once more, carefully, slowly, he began to peel off her tattered clothing. It took little effort and he was soon staring at his mother in all her nude glory. Her body stained with color, her eyes wide and glassy, lips parted as if she were screaming.

"Clean you up," he said, voice sharp, determined as he reached beneath the woman, hooking his elbows beneath her armpits and hoisting her up. He maneuvered her closer to the tub before spilling her body into the basin head-first, causing her legs to stick up at unnatural angles. Frowning, he grabbed at her ankles and turned her 90 degrees, so that she lay length-wise on an imaginary fulcrum. Finally, he positioned her properly in the tub, her knees bent as he pulled her head from the water and leaned her back against the tub's walls.

The water quickly went from clear to a murky pink, slowly getting muddier in color with little prompt.

He grabbed a wash cloth from a rack beside the tub and dipped it in the water. He added soap and wrung the cloth between his hands before pressing the rough fabric to his mother's face.

"Y-You're pretty, momma," he said softly. "So p-pretty." Washing her face, he leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead, giving her a kiss -the kind of kiss she used to give him every night before bed... after she'd check under his bed for monsters.

Drawing another harsh breath of stale air and the stench of decomposition, he forced his memories back into a memory vault and continued to wash his mother, steeling his face to avoid a grimace when he went as far as to clean out his mother's exposed intestines and a kidney floated up in the water, buoyant.

When the woman was decidedly clean, he did his best to maneuver her out of the water before pulling the stopper from the drain.

His mother resting on the floor, he pulled the med kit to himself, opening the box and peering inside before setting to work with gauze and bandages, wrapping his mothers gaping abdomen and exposed duodenum, but not before repositioning the dislodged kidney and staring in admiration at the discoloring segments of liver.

Once he decided that she was taken care of, he gripped her under arms and proceeded to drag her out of the bathroom and into the living room, her body and hair wet and so much heavier than before. Once in the living room, he sat his mother's body in a recliner.

He frowned when her head limply lolled to the side.

"It's okay, momma. Get comfortable. I'll get a blanket for you." He offered the body a sad smile before tightly pursing his lips and going to retrieve a quilt that had been previously draped over the back of the sofa. He carried it back to his mother and draped it over her cold form. "Warm you up, momma," he said, trying to ignore the twinge of despair that started to tug at his heart. He pulled the lever to raise the foot rest of the recliner, trying to make his mother as comfortable as possible.

Once this was accomplished, he dropped to a kneel, his head lowered as he measured his own condition. Unlike his beautiful mother, he wasn't injured or hurt, but he was covered in blood; he was physically exhausted and his lungs hurt from the exertion of racing against his thudding heart. Raising a shaky hand for inspection, his nerves were on fire, quivers racking through his small frame; he let out a grunt through gritted teeth, unwilling to cry or sob or reveal his building desire to wail.

He would not wallow, not when his mother needed him.

Still kneeling next to her chair, he rested his head against the foot-rise, his temple able to feel the cold seeping from her body through the blanket. Like a personal cold compress, a medicine to his headache, stress, and heat.

Allowing a small watery smile, he let his eyelids close. He took slow deep breaths and soon found himself drifting.

Sleep claimed him, pulling him into a drowning pit of exhaustion and moral judgement.

If he dreamed, he did not recall, but he awoke to the sight of a seemingly sleeping woman with red hair that flowed down in waves, and he smiled.

Because, despite everything, he could take care of her, love her, and make her proud.

Feeling a strange and comforting feeling igniting his insides, he got up and turned the TV on. A movie was playing. Cujo, an old favorite. He climbed into his mother's lap and rested against her depressed frame, eyes practically glued to the screen.

And everything was okay. It had to be. His nine year old mind wouldn't let it be anything but fine. And as his rational mind dissipated, an infectious idea began to form, take root and suffocate his innocence - an almost literal mind-rape; rather, since he was doing this to himself, would it be more like ill-consented mental masturbation? Could there be such a thing, ridiculous as it was?

A deranged giggle tore from his core and stole through his lips before turning into an uncontrollable laugh, only to come to an abrupt halt as he fell slack against the corpse.

"Tired," he reasoned. "Tired, momma. I wish you could tell me a bedtime story... but you can't. Your mouth is open but your lungs won't work. So... I'll tell you a story. Then I'll protect you from monsters."

...

* * *

**Not entirely sure what I'm doing with this. This is just an intro, and I need to follow through. I want Matt to pretty much lose his sanity and become a rather violent vigilante. And of course, I wanna have Mello in here later; I haven't decided if he'll be a comrade or adversary. But, baby steps; I wanna take my time with this, keep it evenly paced and with a good flow.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** New Breed: DOG BYTE

**Summary:** Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a bit of a doozy. The events in it are NECESSARY for what I want to accomplish, but I'm relieved to be done with it and working on the THIRD chapter. I should have Mello in this fic BY THE FOURTH! And with any luck, that's where things will get more interesting -as if they're not wicked already. XD

...

* * *

It was dark, save for the static of the television for that evening as a young redhead sprayed another coat of Lysol disinfectant over his mother's degenerating corpse. Her skin, no longer holding the pale glow of a fresh victim, had turned a dirty color similar to that of a wilted old pumpkin; that almost brown flesh hung loosely over her skeletal frame, her eyes were sunken and turning black, rotting. Flies and maggots squirmed beneath her pale brown-grey flesh, and all the little boy could do was hope to preserve her for as long as possible, even as he set the disinfectant aside and climbed into her lap, there was no comfort there, no warmth, not even a plush bosom to nuzzle against. Her skin was too thin and saggy, ripping as easily as paper if he jostled too rough against her. She was almost completely devoid of fluids and entrails by now, but she was still rotting and falling apart.

Right before his eyes, she was slipping further and further away.

Even the constant use of Lysol and Bleach couldn't keep the stench away for long, though he continued to try day by day and week by week.

"Can't let you leave me, momma," he said in a hushed voice, eyes wide with worry as he stared into a face that was once full of love and smiles. Almost pained, he tried to remind her of happier times with a half-broken smile of his own, only to find himself angered when the smile faltered. His face crushed into a look of anguish and he released a violent sob, eyes leaking and hands balling into fists as he pounded against his mother's chest, as if the act itself would revive her. His hands thrashing into her, he could feel her ribs and cautioned himself not to injure her or ruin her further.

She was far too precious for that.

Another sob tore through him as he spoke. "Wh-Why'd you leave me all alone, momma?" He sniffled and jerked away, wiping his face with the back of his hand before clearing his throat. "I-I still love you, momma. I'll keep you safe." He nodded, though his eyes betrayed the assurance he wanted to offer. His eyes, a misty shade of green, red-rimmed with emotion and lidded like anime puppy eyes.

Forcing himself to get up from her lap, he crossed the room to turn the TV off, static turning to black soundless nothing. Left in the dark, he could pretend his mother was okay, that she was living and breathing the same as himself.

That made him smile. His stomach growled and it made him release a nervous sort of giggle.

Looking towards his maternal figure -but not seeing her due to the oppressive sanction of darkness- he found himself asking: "Hungry, momma?" His voice was meek as he spoke. When he received no answer, he sighed audibly and decided to at least feed himself... right after dousing the kitchen floor in another gallon of bleach that he'd obtained from a closet filled solely with cleaning supplies, disinfectants, detergents, and various chemicals in powder or liquid form most of which contained a WARNING or CAUTION label.

Taking the bleach to the kitchen and removing the cap, his eyes took in the morose stain of brownish-pink where blood had remained too long on the previously white tiles. A small part of him mourned the stain, seeing it as an imperfection that could have been avoided... if only he'd cleaned the mess up sooner. If only the stench of decay would stop reminding him of the horror that befell. If only...

With a heavy sigh, he tilted the container. Bottoms up, it poured and splashed with the impact of gravity, staining the redheaded boy's denim-clad pant legs. He watched the chemical pool over the tiles, stretching wide and getting thinner until it covered such a vast amount of surface area.

Feeling a little nauseous at inhaling the bleach, he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and held it for a moment, as if the striped cotton fabric would act as a gas mask and filter his oxygen. As if a little extra taint in his lungs would make a difference to the wheezing breaths that came and went. As if...

Making a last-ditch decision to leave the bleach and mop it up at a later time, he took large careful strides and exited the kitchen, pulling his face free from his shirt-mask as he did. He gulped in air and leaned against the hallway wall. His cheeks were flushed against his otherwise pale skin, and he tried desperately to ward away the oncoming headache; still, as he inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, half-smelling and half-tasting the chemical-polluted air, he couldn't bring himself to care.

His concern was the foul stench that just wouldn't leave. The acrid odor that reminded him of a cross between old bloodied hamburger and that dead skunk he'd found on the side of the road one day when he and his mother had gone for a walk.

Then again, if he really thought about it, the skunk might have smelled just a little better.

He squeezed his eyes shut and lumbered about, walking aimlessly from room to room, trying to decide on a simple food he could manage. He wasn't about to try to cook anything and risk a fire or accident while his mother was inside, helpless. He knew there was a fair amount of non-perishables, though he'd eaten all the cereal and most of what could be heated in the microwave. There was still various canned foods, if he got hungry enough.

He just... had no real appetite or desire to eat, though his stomach growled an angry taunt, begging for nourishment.

Nourishment that he openly denied.

He eventually found himself sifting through the chemical-infested closet once more, not entirely sure what he was looking for, if anything. In the back of his young mind, he supposed he was taking inventory, trying to find out how much bleach and laundry soap he had to work with, what scents of Pine Sol might hide the horrid odors that kept him up at night. That's when he found the Algenate and Plaster of Paris, and while most little boys wouldn't know what those agents and reactants were, this particular boy was just eccentric enough to know the uses, the properties, and even the majority of the precautions.

And before he could stop himself or even think to question the matter, an idea had formed and solidified.

Algenate. Plaster. Mould. Project. Busy work.

First up, he'd gather supplies, most -if not all- of which he knew to be around his home. Gathering up what he deemed necessary, he settled everything at a makeshift work station that had been previously used for his mother's own private 'clay station...' back when his mother went through a pottery phase.

With a grunt, he shirked the memory away, gathered what was needed and found himself seated.

Finally, he could begin his work, starting with creating an Algenate negative impression of his own palate. Utilizing a small container that would work as a makeshift dental tray- it was a small decorative tin, but he supposed it would do the trick for what he had in mind- he made a solution of water and Algenate powder inside the tin, let it sit for a moment and then put the tin-tray into his mouth just long enough for the solution to stick and harden. Finally, he wiggled the tray and pried it from his mouth before examining the impression of his teeth, gumline, and upper palate.

It was a negative impression. For his intent, he'd need to use the negative to forge a positive.

Logic, science, chemical mixtures. Common sense and creativity was just a bonus.

What he had in mind, it was a fairly simple process for DIY dentures, not that he _needed _them. But the idea that came to mind was one he couldn't shake; one that might hold him and his mother even closer.

The reality of the situation was, despite everything, a deep, dark part of him found fear and distaste for snuggling up to the cold empty corpse, but he didn't want to lose her. Her body was rotting away, but her structure was still a comfort. He wondered vaguely, if he could do it, carry on with what he had in mind... If he could... tear her down, make her into something useful.

Like the Indians did with Buffalo. They took the hair and hides and bones and meat...

Surely, his mothers meat -or what was left of it- was rancid and infectious with bacteria and parasites, so that would be rendered useless, but... he was clever. He would make use of the rest of her.

A warm feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout him, allowing him a calm smile as he waited for the algenate to fully harden.

Like with any mould for any form of classic artistry, he'd need something to keep the product from sticking. Vaseline or some kind of oil would do the trick; he settled for PAM non-stick cooking spray, just a thin coating of it as if he were going bake a cake or something rather than construct a gruesome denture.

He placed his tin tray within another that was slightly larger and would act as a dam to avoid unnecessary mess and contain the plaster work he wanted to do. He took the Plaster of Paris and mixed it 2 parts plaster to 1 part water, mixing it until it was thin and smooth. Then he was able to pour his plaster into the negative mould, careful and slow to avoid air pockets and bubbles of imperfection. When he was satisfied, he was a bit more liberal with pouring until the teeth and palate were fully covered.

It takes roughly fifteen minutes for the plaster to start hardening, during which, the redhead sat in a chair and idly kicked his feet as he hummed a random tune he'd made up in his head.

There was no reason to feel worried or sick.

This was a science project.

Some people made a potato-powered clock, and others resolved the idea of skinning their dead mother and using her bones to make dentures while forgoing the idea of using acrylic teeth.

It was a perfectly normal and harmless activity for any nine year old.

Nevermind that the redhead had forgotten to put on gloves, and the chemical agents had irritated his skin and set his nerve endings aflame.

His hands and wrists itched and burned, but he ignored it. He ignored how his fingers turned colors like an oxidized coin.

Fifteen minutes came and passed but the plaster mixture didn't quite look solid; this caused a frown to tug at the corners of his lips. "I-I know I did it right," he murmured, brows knitting together in confusion. Grabbing up the container of Algenate powder, he read the label. "It-It can take up-up to an-an hour." His words came out choked, nervous, full of repetition and stutters when he least wanted it to. He swallowed imaginary bile and tried to think of what he could do while he waited an additional 45 minutes.

He looked at the clock.

He kicked his feet.

He hummed and mumbled words to songs he only knew small parts of.

He looked at the clock.

Time progressed too slowly and he grew restless.

With an agitated groan, he got up and left his work station and began to get his mind focused on another pending task, one that he'd been putting off for days- _How long had it been since his mother's... disembowelment? Sometimes it seemed so much longer, but most of the time, he could remember her voice as if she'd spoken just yesterday. There were times when her death was all he could thing about, and other times he genuinely forgot._

Blinking back a prickling sensation behind his eyes, he steeled his resolve and acquired a pair of kitchen shears- the very set his mother had warned him could easily 'slice through chicken bone.' And then he took a slow and daunting trek to the living room where his mother's body remained. Scissors in one hand, he used the other hand to peal back the quilt for the first time since he'd covered her up.

The sight beneath the blanket made his stomach churn and his eyes water. The bandages he'd wrapped her with were a dirty, ugly color. Little brown and white worms wriggled in and out of sores on the flesh. His mother's breasts once small and perky were sagged and veiny and a nasty ashen color.

There were so many sores, skin gaping and peeling but no blood to seep out. His mother was dry on the inside, tattling just how long it had been since her demise.

His face scrunched up in horror and he half-choked on a sob.

This wasn't right. It was more than ten kinds of wrong. He felt sick and couldn't help the rush of heat and stomach acid that climbed his esophagus as he doubled over and lost what little his stomach had to offer. Vomiting and panting and vomiting again, he felt sick and weary, unable to catch his breath.

"S-Sorry, momma," he whispered, not sure what else to say or do. But, taking another breath and forcing his trembling body to calm as much as he could, he reached to his mother and set to work. He had too much to do if he were to salvage her, and he'd waited much too long already.

He started with her hair- _snip-snip._

Ribbons of red hair came out by the handful and the little boy set them aside for sentimental value. He loved his momma's hair, so pretty and it aways smelled so nice. Her hair was special.

Nearly bald with only a few tendrils of red left on her head, the woman sat there, a pitiable sight.

But her son wouldn't be deterred. Nearly gagging on the lump that formed in his throat, he pressed a shaky scissor-wielding hand towards his mother. The blade ripped the skin with the slightest pressure and he began to cut.

_Snip-Snip!_

The skin came away so easily, almost like foam latex but more delicate and almost brittle. In some places, her skin had toughed similar to leather, but it was still no match for the cutting blades.

Before long, she was little more than bones and rotted tissue as her son dropped a pile of dead flesh to the floor. That pile of flesh... a skin-suit, almost latex. He'd stripped her skin from skull to toe.

Now, staring at her more naked than she was when he'd first removed her clothes, he took in the sight.

_This is what death looks like_, he reasoned, staring more at a skeleton than a person.

This is what made her absence bearable, the true understanding that while she existed, she stopped being human. The knowledge that she'd turned into something lifeless wasn't detrimental on his love for her; it enhanced his desire to keep her safe, to protect her, to remain with her in the same sad way that no child wants to give up a security blanket or favorite stuffed animal.

The pile of flesh, his eyes glanced at it and his gaze remained there; he couldn't look away. He'd seen it while it was on her, felt the sick cold and clammy texture of it as he tugged it from her infrastructure, but he'd done it with a nearly detached disposition. And now, he had to stare, to understand, to truly see what had become of this - of _her_.

The coloring was all wrong and the texture was borderline rubbery. For a moment, he thought of putting it on like a costume; it truly looked like one. The thought made him giggle because it was so silly. So terrible. So... considerable. In the end, he decided to sleep on the issue and worry about it later... after he'd cleaned the bugs out and stitched up the gaping sores and wounds. Then, _maybe_...

In his mother's skull were a set of black gleaming eyes speckled with dust, rotted away like old eggs. No longer white with blue-green irises and black pupils. Just... rotten sightless orbs, brownish-black and smelling like bad meat. Soured.

For a moment, he wondered if she could see him, not with her physical self but in a spiritual sense. If maybe, her ghost would linger and watch over him. The thought made his heart sink. He wasn't doing anything she'd be proud of. She'd wanted him to study, to be smart, to grow up and be someone important. But all he'd been doing is wallowing and trying to cling onto something that was slipping away a little more each hour.

He felt sick again.

But he pressed onward, narrowing his eyes and deciding that what he was doing was indeed _important._

Surely his mother could understand.

Another quick breath and he reached both hands out, his fingers laced around his mother's skull and his thumbs pressed her eye sockets. With just a little pressure, his thumbs pinched through the eyes as if they were rotting vegetables. Cold but not quite slimy. He pushed them in as far as he could.

"Just like when you used to cover my eyes, momma," he said, as if explaining himself to her. "When I got scared during a movie, you'd cover my eyes to hide me from the scary stuff. I-I wanted to do the s-same for you. But it's not the same, I know. This way, you won't be scared, not anymore. Not ever again. Pretend, like, my hands are always over your eyes. I'll be your eyes. I'll tell you when it's safe to look again."

He tried to smile. _Tried _being the key word.

He held his mother's skull between his hands as gently as possible, pulling his thumbs from the emptied sockets and running them across her cheekbones in a loving manner. Drawing back he dropped a hand down and laced his fingers with his mother's own bony phalanges. His fleshy hand holding her dead one just a little too tightly. A shiver racked his body and her bones jostled in an almost comical way, making an eerie rattling sound like that of Halloween wind chimes.

He barked a humorless laugh that fell into a fit of wheezing. And then he held her hand even tighter, needing support that couldn't be offered. Unconsciously, he squeezed tighter and tighter, his own knuckles turning white like his mother's until... _SNAP!_

His eyes widened in shock and his mouth hung open in horror. He stared, almost unseeing for several long seconds before allowing his brain to process the fact that his own unsteady grip had broken his mother's fingers right off her hand. He still held those fingers in his own grip, cold, not quite chalky, and hard.

Three long boney fingers. Index, middle, and ring fingers.

Uncertainly, he drew back further from the corpse and brought those broken skeletal fingers to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to them, as if he were a prince kissing the hand of a fair maiden.

His lips against the foreign texture of bone, he couldn't help the smile, his insides a torrent of confusion and mixed emotions. He seemed to be constantly struggling between unrelenting mirth and uncontrollable hurt. But for now, he was at least safe, and he'd keep his mother safe.

Keeping the fingers in his hands, he'd return to the skeletal frame at a later time. For now, he'd continue with his little science project.

Dragging his feet along the floor, half-stumbling as he carried three fingers in one hand and the pair of nearly forgotten shears in his other, he headed back to his work station and glanced at the clock.

The timing was good enough.

Using the shears, he sat at the table and proceeded to cut apart the segments of fingers with ease and line them up accordingly. He had nine little pieces when he was done.

Removing the fully hardened Plaster of Paris from the dam and easily pulling it from the negative mould, he was left with a positive impression, which is what he needed. A base plate. He trimmed the positive with the shears and cleaned up the rough edges with a small strip of sandpaper.

He procured and mixed pink acrylic powder and monomer and applied a thin layer to the palate and gumline of the positive base plate. While he waited for the mixture to 'cure' and set in, he took the sand paper to the finger bones, gradually grinding them down to something small, pointed and usable. Then, selecting the best six, he took some Blu Tack and began to adhere the bones where his teeth would go.

In no time at all, though the work was considerably tedious, he'd completed his project. A partial denture with his mother's finger bones in place of fake teeth. Testing it out, he slipped the plate into his mouth and secured it to the best of his ability; it suctioned in place and he tested it against his tongue.

His new teeth appeared grey-white and were pointed like that of a canine's mandible. In his mind, they looked cool, were hardly functional, and were a reminder of his mother. The sentimental value was immeasurable and it was a clever project to keep him busy.

The feel of his tongue pressing into the plate was foreign and strange, but he found that it didn't hinder his speech as much as he expected. There was a slight lisp when he tried to speak, but given his tendency to stutter and lack of social behavior, he supposed it would go unnoticed. -_And it's not like school would be an issue. He'd always been home-schooled. A fact that he'd always been grateful for.  
_

Pleased by his own handy work, he began to clean up, put away the chemicals and supplies, and ultimately trek to the bathroom to get a better view of his handy work. Entering the bathroom, he looked in the mirror and his eyes widened at what he saw.

_It had been too long since he'd seen himself. Vanity be damned._

Red, beautiful red, his hair. After tending his mother's own beautiful hair, he'd nearly forgotten that his own was just a shade brighter, and it was breathtaking. His own eyes, vibrant green and a little sunken -not like his mother, but just enough to show his lack of sleep. And his skin, pale as porcelain... flawless, save for his active hands that were littered with small scars and imperfections.

He focused on what he saw, the beautiful stranger that stared back at him. When he smiled, his reflection mimicked him, and the finger-bones that covered his teeth looked so out of place... but the sight of them -what they represented- made his smile genuine.

In the mirror, he comically tried different expressions with the teeth in; he snapped at his reflection to amuse himself and felt right giddy when he did.

Carefully, he removed the denture and looked it over with pride. He couldn't wear it all the time without his own teeth beginning to wither, so he'd save them for a special occasion. For now, he had to go show his momma.

A gleeful smile in place and fake teeth in hand, he all but ran from the bathroom to the living room, turned the lamp on for better lighting and turned to his mother. "S-See?" he said to her, holding out his creation. "It's a part of you that I can keep with me. Whenever I want. When I eat, it'll be like... you're eating with me. And when I talk, it'll be like... I dunno." He looked puzzled then. Part of him knew what he wanted to say, but his mind wouldn't allow the words. Not wanting to stress on the matter, he pushed the thoughts away and forced a smile. "Bet you're proud of me, huh? I can do other projects. With your skin and your... pretty... pretty... pretty bones."

Biting his lip, he reached a hand towards her skull before timidly pulling away and shaking his head. An awful feeling wrenched in his gut and made him draw back.

"We-We'll worry about that later," he mumbled nervously. "F-For now, stay as intact as you are." He looked thoughtful, then troubled. He lowered his head and with a heavy sigh, he said "Maybe I should take you to the basement. No matter what I do, you... don't smell so good." His heart felt heavy, his head swam in a sea of sudden loathing. "If someone were to come over, what would I say?" He looked to her with wide watery eyes, looking for guidance.

His mother gave no reaction.

Unsure of what to do, he ground his teeth together and turned on the television. Then he seated himself on the couch and stared emptily at the screen.

Batman. He always loved the show. Adam West was his favorite actor. And he loved the comic references: _BAM! POW! WHACK! _

In time, his tension eased and he held a serene smile. "I could do that, y'know. Be like Batman and Robin. They don't have superpowers or anything," he said, sitting up eagerly and leaning towards the TV. "Not hard. Just... wear a costume, hide your identity, and fight crime." His face took on a thoughtful expression before steeling into something more determined. "Someone hurt you, momma. That's why you're like this, so quiet. You're too quiet." He looked over his partial denture and pulled his face into a tight, angry expression. "Someone hurt you and tried to take you away from me. But... you're still here. I saved you. And I can keep saving you." He glanced at his mother's skeletal self. "I could... go after your killer. I could... make things right. I really could..."

His eyes darted back and forth, not looking at anything in particular but needing to do something while his mind took rein of the ambush of thought, idea, logic, and reason. A mental battle ensued, and his head began to pound. Dropping the denture into his lap and pressing the heels of his hands to his temples, he let out a cry of distress as his mind began to collapse inward.

Panting and calming himself, composure slowly returned though his breathing remained erratic.

"S-Someone hurt you, momma," he said, voice bitter. "They did this to you. But I'll make it right. I promise. But first, how about some coffee?"

...

* * *

**/I've got a jump on the next chapter. It's been awkward and creepy until now; next chapter just gets plain violent! I'll happily take suggestions for weapon use. Ideally, yeah, guns, but really, where's the creativity in that?! I wanna work with some close combat, hands-on bloody work. Baseball bat? Metal crowbar? Hammer? Shovel? Katar dagger? The possibilities are endless!/**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** New Breed: DOG BYTE

**Summary:** Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note:** T_T This chapter nearly killed me. I edited it so much, and I'm still not satisfied. BUT, stuff happens and Mello enters the story and our redhead is finally dubbed MATT! I've waited far too long to address him by that name.

...

* * *

Time wouldn't stop moving, couldn't stop, just as the redhead himself couldn't stop working.

His thoughts all in jumbles, he had literally bagged his mother's bones and hid them in the basement, whispering under his breath that it was to help preserve her safety. Then, without further delay, he got to work doing some more thorough cleaning, almost desperate to be rid of the awful smells that seemed to soak into the furniture and walls. He cleaned for hours, until his lungs wheezed with the chemicals he inhaled; and then he kept cleaning. Light-headed and nauseous, nothing was clean enough.

He scrubbed and mopped and scrubbed and bleached. And then he scrubbed some more, his fingers becoming raw and shaky as fatigue set in.

At one point, he felt as if he was doing more coughing than breathing, but his lungs seemed to adjust, allowing him quick shallow breaths in place of the long drawn ones he'd prefer. His chest and sides ached, a sure sign of his organs working overtime, but he gave himself little rest.

He could rest with his mother later. There was too much to do.

_Had to clean. Had to disinfect. Had to eat, sleep, and bathe._

Food, running low... but he'd worry about that later.

His thoughts tumbled in his head; his focus became strained, his vision blurred. His own flesh was irritated and rashy, itching in some places and burning in others. But it was all for the sake of cleaning and making his home better suited for himself and the skeletal woman who'd raised him.

His mother's skin had been thrown out, trashed and disposed, though a cold and logical part of him considered the uses. The way the skin had toughened in a way that reminded him of lambskin leather, he _should _have done something productive with it... But once his cleaning spree began, he grew overwhelmed and just pitched it, along with several sentimental objects that might have brought tears to his face: among which was a photo album full of smiling faces and memories that would forever be silenced: captions scripted in sloppy pen and marker never to be read again. The past itself seemed long gone. Clean, gone, disposed of. Just gone. Had to get rid of...

_Just clean!_

Shiny floors. Walls soaked in Pine Sol. Carpets... vacuumed and shampooed. Blankets and clothes, everything washed.

_Purified._

In many ways, his literal cleaning assisted his own emotional cleansing.

Of course, he kept his mother's bones. Safe.

He kept the pile of hair he'd cut from her; he'd braided it into a long and precious cord and tacked it to the wall in a strange memorial sort of thing. It was a comfort, to stare at, to touch, and to smell. He loved that hair, slept near it and thought of it as a sort of dream catcher. Something to protect him against the unknown, unseen, and un-fightable.

He thanked his lucky stars that his mother was a woman who'd planned ahead, and so the utilities and whatnot were always paid months ahead of time.

This fact afforded him the luxury of maintaining a decent lifestyle for as long as possible. He loved television. He watched all the old shows and movies when he found time or just needed a break from his thoughts -rather, the fractal thoughts that came in segmented portions and rarely made sense. But, more importantly, he began to make time to watch the NEWS almost religiously. Before long, he knew all the reporters and newscasters, and even the camera crew. Any time he heard a new name, he quickly refreshed his desktop and started searching, learning everything he could about anyone and everything.

He hated some of the people on TV. The annoying people who smiled so smugly, filthy rich and feeding off the poor. He hated the fat lecherous men who guffawed over the skinny hookers that accompanied them. And more than anything, he hated every cop that spoke solemnly, vowing to catch a criminal... and never succeeding.

There was just too much horror. Arson, murder, thievery... The list went on and on.

A dark pit began to grow in his stomach as he watched the reporters talk it up, witnesses spazzing, tears being shed, and cops confessing that they'd let another perpetrator get away...

_People like that cop... People like him are the reason momma was assaulted._

His food supply almost completely diminished, he opened a canister of coffee and ate the ground up beans with a spoon. The taste was bitter but the caffeine had him on high, made him feel energetic and invincible; even helped his mind make sense: the disjointed thoughts gaining bridges and connecting in ways that seemed to click.

In time -though it had taken months- the power had been cut, bills no longer paid. No more television, no computer, nothing. For entertainment, he was reduced to reading the newspaper that came with the mail.

Stock markets, obituaries, and an ever-climbing crime rate.

_Someone, stop this. Another break-in. Another mugging. Young woman found dead..._

Bile rose in his throat as he considered the atrocious things that greeted him as he processed the words and contemplated.

His own mother's name - _Anna Lisa Jeevas_\- was never in the paper. And the redhead was glad... because as far as he was concerned, his mother was just under the weather, not dead. She was just quiet, bagged up and sitting in the basement. But he could visit her. He could smell her hair if he wanted. He could play with the dentures he'd made.

Oh, how he grew to adore those dentures. Silly, almost novelty, but precious all the same. While he refused to wear them save for precious occasions, he rarely parted from them, keeping them on hand or nearby.

When he ran out of things to do, he filed them to make them sharper. It was his pride and joy: a piece of his mother he could always have with him...

...

As much as he detested the idea, he would have to find a more appropriate way to support himself. The matter was unavoidable. He was technically squatting, though he told himself otherwise.

_This is home._

Food was a necessity, and while he didn't mind literally eating coffee grinds, it was hardly nutritious. Plus, he needed more Bleach; the smell of the cleaning agent had become a calm and familiar thing, soothing him in ways that no warm blanket or hug ever could. If he had it his way, he'd sit next to his mother's bones and inhale the chemical all day, but alas it wasn't probable. Too much to do, too much to worry about.

Another newspaper. Another crime report.

He needed money and food. And he'd need it soon.

At his age, ten -he'd forgone the celebration of his last birthday- a job wasn't a likely option. After mulling it over, he decided to try his luck at the local pawn shop.

He recalled with fondness, how his mother and he would take a walk and find themselves there. Not for pawning or even purchasing, but just to look at the antiques. She would point at various items and proudly declare what they were and their intended purpose. Then, she'd give him a pop quiz, orally asking if he knew what time period said item was from.

He loved those quizzes, almost as much as he loved seeing the pride in his mother's eyes when he answered correctly. It was the best kind of history lesson.

But for now, those history lessons were at a halt. He needed money.

That was his focus.

He knew his mother had a small collection of jewelry, and while he wasn't sure of the value, his mother had said it was '_priceless_.' Priceless either meant it was worth a fortune... or it was worth pennies but held emotional value. And as he grabbed up the necklaces, rings, and little studded trinkets, he hoped to pull in at least a little bit of money.

Enough for some food, and maybe a coat. But food first. And it wouldn't hurt to get the water turned back on...

Slipping the shiny gems, chains, and bands into a cloth pouch and securing the pouch to his belt like a makeshift fanny pack, he grabbed an old raggedy zip-up hoody and decided to walk the short distance to the shop.

His shoes felt tight, squeezing his toes uncomfortably. His feet had grown. He was a growing boy, so it only made sense, but he was loathe to the idea of anything about him changing. Change was a terrible thing. He'd been affected enough by it to know how bad it could be. And while something as trivial as a shoe size wasn't much to worry about, it left him unsettled and wondering what other changes awaited him.

To his surprise, he found the weather to be warm for that time of year. It was late in the Fall, but the temperature was still in the mid 50's.

As he walked, he kicked at rocks and occasionally stopped to watch a bird fly overhead. Cars passed, sounds whistled in and out of his ears, and he was almost content. Almost felt normal. Almost... a lot of things.

He thought of all the times he and his mother would walk together. She'd hold his hand while he tried to run ahead of her due to excitement, but she always held him firmly, gently, refusing to let him go. He remembered pouting because he wanted to run, but she'd only give him a soft smile and gentle gaze before releasing his hand and asking if he'd pick her some wild flowers.

At the memory, his eyes trailed to the grassy patches along the side of the road where wild flowers once bloomed, but at this time of the year, they'd been replaced with dying weeds of varying shades of brown and gold.

_Even the flowers are dead..._

That thought made him ache dully and he pressed onwards.

_They'll bloom next Spring, bright purples and yellows on leafy greens..._

The walk itself was mostly uneventful, but upon arrival at a small shop with a poorly shingled roof, he couldn't help the instant notoriety of something being wrong.

Glaringly obvious, it was; his heart did a flip; his empty stomach clenched.

The lights in the store were out, though the neon sign out front declared: _OPEN_. A front window pane was busted, shattered, glass more on the inside than out, suggesting either vandalism or a break-in.

_So much crime in such a small town..._

The redhead's heart thudded as he wondered what had gone on, but he willed away anxiety with a deep inhale and slow exhale. "This is nothing," he whispered. His mind fast-forwarded through a montage of TV reports and newspaper clippings, all about the growing rate of criminal activity. And, he reasoned, it was only a matter of time before he came into contact with something of the sort, be it on a trip to a store or an attempted burglary of his own homestead.

Taking a deep breath, he approached the broken window and peered inside, curiosity out weighing the cautious part of his mind. What he saw made him sick.

Mrs Mendez, the store clerk he'd come to know fairly well with her bright blue eyes and soft brown hair that fell in long curls, was held face down with her hands behind her back as a masked assailant slammed her face into the counter and murmured a series of expletives.

The redhead bit his lip and shook his head. Images flashed behind his eyes like a moving-picture show. Images of his mother on the kitchen floor, her insides spilling out. He choked on something intangible as the memory flooded him, hitting him with full-force. Snapping his eyes open -_when had he closed them?- _an almost feral growl left him.

_Something had to be done._

One particular thought came to mind, and that thought seemed to awaken a deep, dark part of him.

That thought...

_Avenge my mother._

He'd tried any number of times to recall the face of his mother's attacker, but each time, all he could surface was a blurry and indistinctive figure that hardly seemed real. In his mind, his mother's murderer could be anyone. And everyone was a threat and a suspect.

This masked man, the one attacking Mrs Mendez, he could very well be the one that tried to take his mother away from him, and the mere possibility drowned him in rage, slaughtering the innocence he had left and reviving a monster in its place.

"This is for you, mother," he whispered harshly, reaching into a pocket and pulling out his finger-bone denture, slipping it into his mouth and securing it to his upper palate. With a quick snarl, his pressed his hands to the glass-splintered window sill and leapt up, propelling himself through the shattered opening and into the pawn shop. His hands took slices and gouges from the glass at his own carelessness but he hardly registered the sting as he landed in a crouched position.

He growled again, animalistic as his saliva built around his fake teeth and dribbled down his chin.

The masked man's physical form tensed up, rigid, registering the fact that he was no longer alone with his victim. Bashing her head one final time and effectively rendering Mrs Mendez unconscious, he turned to face the intruding redhead.

Seeing a young boy crouched there with an angry snarl, the man chuckled, unfazed. "You're just a kid," he said with a bite of amusement. "Why don't you go home and come back later?" He spoke in a calm voice, though his tone radiated with condescension.

"F-Fuck you," the redhead half-stammered before slurping up some of his pooling drool. He glanced around, quick, looking for something to aid him. For some reason, while he'd thought about and even fantasized a chance to avenge his mother and dispatch her killer, it never occurred to him that he should arm himself with something other than novelty teeth. Still, he focused on what he wanted to do, refusing to be intimidated by the lack of equipment on his person.

A car drove passed, not stopping or even slowing, apparently having a destination in mind. But as it passed, its lights shone through a window, the artificial glow caught a gleam on something shiny.

Something metal.

Something with a blade that wasn't too far from the redhead's reach.

With another growl, the redhead decided to catch the assailant off guard. Starting with a question. "Who are you, and what did you come here for?"

The masked man shrugged, taking on a casual stance, clearly not threatened in the slightest. He gave no answer, though he did glance about, as if looking for something. Something valuable.

Seeing this as a distraction, the redhead inched to his left before pouncing and grabbing the shiny metal object that had caught his attention. He'd never seen anything like it in person, but he wasn't stupid; he could tell well enough what it was.

Part of his mind was already detailing it, documenting it and reciting what he knew.

_16th Century South Asian push-dagger... Known as a Kattari, later called Katara, and finally dubbed a Katar. It was a precursor to the 17th Century Gauntlet-sword..._

Taking the H-shaped hilt into his hand, his fingers wrapped around the horizontal bar, he momentarily examined the sharp split-edge 12inch blade that stuck out. His thumb locked around a strange little lever that seemed almost out of place, and with the slightest bit of pressure on that lever, the blade '_schwicked_' out, separating so that the single blade morphed into three sharp claws.

The redhead was awed for a fraction of a second before he took a stumble forward, intending to be more confident and graceful in his step, but failing. He hissed his annoyance as he took another step, this one more solid and careful.

Tri-blade in hand, he continued forward at an ominously slow pace.

The older man looked at him with more curiosity than fear. "That's a sharp toy for such a little boy," he said with a bored tone. "Why don't you put that up and go find a nice firetruck to play with?" Not really waiting for an answer, he reached over the counter and grabbed a handful of green bills- money, and not much by the look of it.

Then, turning and planning to leave, the man didn't expect the redhead to lurch forward.

But the redhead did, he lunged, blade-wielding arm outstretched as he rammed the aged weapon into the man's thigh.

The man screamed and crouched down, dropping the money and using both hands to catch himself by grappling at a display case that tottered under his weight.

But the redhead wasn't done. An almost manic grin formed on his face, his lips cradling the filed finger bones. He jerked the weapon back and slashed it at the man's arm once, twice, three times before punching forward in a stabbing motion, getting him in the chest.

The man flailed and gasped, bloodshot eyes wide with surprise and something akin to fear. "F-Fuck, what's wrong with you, kid?!" He shrieked in hysteria, eyes glazing over as shock began to set in. His body so pained, it was beginning to numb over. Nerves twitched as his breath started in gasps and grew into labored sputters.

The redhead jerked his weapon back and panted, exhilarated at the little bit of exertion. He let his arm dangle at his side, limp as the weapon weighed him down. "M-My mom was attacked unfairly. Sh-She didn't get justice. B-but now, justice is served," he said through panting timid breaths. He forced his eyes not to widen in surprise as he watched the blood seep from the man's wounds and dribble down into a puddle on the floor. "S-Someone needs to p-protect people." Taking another few breaths, he added, "a-and maybe that someone is _me_."

The man slumped to the floor, body already weakened and limbs shaking without his consent. "But you're just a... kid," he said, voice sounding far off and drained.

"I have a name," he said pointedly, straightening his posture and wiping the bloodied blade against his hoody. "I'm not a stupid kid. I know how the world works." Tears built up behind his eyes and threatened to spill, but he kept them at bay. "People... will take... everything," he said, voice cracking. "And then, what's left?" Clearing his throat and giving a shake of his head, he added: "I lost everything. Because of people like you. Y-You can just... die... motherfucker," the last word came out before he could stop it just as he raised his foot and slammed a hard kick to the dizzying man. His foot went straight for the man's face, heel digging into his nose and pressing the bone and cartilage through his nasal cavity and into his brain, effectively silencing him with a murderous blow.

And, panting more, the redhead's body visibly sagged, disheveled and emotionally drained.

"You're safe now, Mrs Mendez," he said, voice barely above a whisper as he gathered the stolen money and placed it on the counter.

For a brief moment, he considered taking the money as a reward but quickly thought better of it.

_Heroes help because it's the right thing to do... NOT to gain a quick buck._

With a small sigh, he turned away.

He originally came for money. He'd come to pawn off his mother's jewelry -he'd come back and do it some other time, surely.

For now, what he'd accomplished, while it made him partly sick, it brought him a wicked sort of satisfaction that he couldn't quite name. Slurping at his drool once more, he turned and walked right out the front door, tri-blade in hand.

Yeah, maybe he'd stolen it, but he saved a life, and that had to count for something. Glancing at the weapon as he began his walk home, his thumb toyed with the lever on the H-bar, and at the slightest touch, the blades pulled together to form a single split-edge blade once more. Another touch of the thumb, and they split into three again. He played with it several times, testing the sensitivity and reflex. Closing it into a single blade, he opened his hoody and sheathed it in his belt next to his pouch of jewelry; he quickly zipped up said hoody to keep it hidden.

He had blood spatters on him, and he should've been sick and disturbed, but... he felt oddly comforted.

_Heroic!_

On his trek home, he thought of his mother, how proud she'd be to know that he saved Mrs Mendez.

He smiled widely, finger-bone teeth glinting as the darkness began to settle and the moon cast a glow.

He felt strangely giddy, warm, almost elated.

Picking up the pace and breaking into a full-on sprint, he had to get home, had to tell his momma about what happened. In all his excitement, perhaps he should have paid more attention.

He didn't notice anyone else around. Not until he collided headfirst into someone and promptly fell back onto his bottom.

"Watch where the fuck you're going!" someone screamed, causing the redhead to flinch.

"I-I, uh, s-sorry?" the redhead stammered, adrenaline and excitement leaving him too quickly and the slightest bit of nervousness washing over him. He glanced at the other, seeing a young blonde about his own age.

The blonde's hair was a particular shade, similar to that of the dying gold weeds. His eyes, a lightning blue, visible even in the stale light of the moon. He was clad in a black T-shirt that had a wicked clown printed on front, and his jeans were tight and black and bunched into his mid-calf boots.

The redhead took in the blonde's appearance and- "What are you-" he began but his question was cut off by the blonde's own mouth.

"Fuck you, kid! Can't you see I'm busy?! I got shit to do, and you can't get in my way or I'll bowl you over!" And he certainly did look busy, with that metal crowbar stained a rusty red, gripped so securely that it almost looked as if it actually _belonged _there in his grasp.

Finally getting to his feet and dusting himself off, the redhead began to piece it all together fairly quick, eyes narrowing, brows furrowing. "You... What are you doing? You look like you're going to-"

"It's called a fight, dumbass. Loser punks jumped me the other day, and I'm giving some payback," he spat angrily. "Cops don't do shit, so I gotta!" With that, he shoved the redhead harshly to the side, walking passed.

With wide eyes and a series of images rapidly flashing behind his eyes-

_Mother. Blood. Everywhere. Gone. Entrails. Bones. Mrs Mendez. Her masked attacker. More blood, so much of it. The Katar dagger being punched through his chest..._

In a fraction of a second, the redhead's head spun and he was trailing after the blonde. "I-I'm Matt," he said before slurping up collective saliva once more. "C-Can I come and help?"

The blonde paused, body visibly tensing, shoulders squaring. He turned a glare to the redhead and regarded him with a quirked brow. "You... want to help... me?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he turned away and continued on with a grumble of "Alright, c'mon Matt... I'm Mello, by the way. And if you try to make a pun of the name, I'll kick you so hard, your balls will find a new home in your throat."

The redhead, Matt, took a breath before releasing it with a shaky laugh. "F-Fair enough, Mello-Yello," there was a tease in the way he spoke, daringly so.

The blonde tensed again but his stride only faltered slightly. "Whatever, Dog-Bite," came his retort with a light and airy tone.

"D-Dog-Bite?" Matt wondered allowed.

Mello gave a half shrug. "Yeah, Dog-Bite, because you're kinda following me around like a lost pup, and you've got those crazy teeth."

"Oooh," was all Matt bothered to answer with as he tagged along.

A small part of the redhead was racked with anxiety for what was to come, but another part of him recalled how useless the cops were, and how... just maybe...

_Maybe..._

He didn't bother finishing the thought as a chain link fence came into view. Behind the fence, a group of well muscled teens were grappling and pushing each other around, shouting and throwing beer bottles.

A sly grin etched itself across Mello's face as he gripped the crowbar tighter. "Well, game on," he said in a loud whisper as Matt stepped up beside him and the duo traipsed onto the scene.

* * *

**...**

**This chapter ended up a bit more psychological rather than violent. Matt's thread of mentality is more exposed, and he took his first life. He's just met Mello and things can only get... more entertaining? I have a lot of love for the Katar, so it'll likely be Matt's main weapon. As for Mello, he currently has a crowbar, BUT I intend to have a fair amount of killing in this fic, so I'm kinda hoping to change it up. I want Mello to use various weapons in creative ways, if possible. But NO GUNS! Can you believe it? Mello without a gun. I dunno. Lately, guns just seem cheap and too easy. It's more fun to use close-ranged weapons. I'll happily take suggested weapons into account.**

**-The focus of this fic is officially turned to MxM. So, let's see where it goes!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **New Breed: DOG BYTE

**Summary: **Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **This chapter... BAH! At least it's pretty long.

...

* * *

The night air was crisp as the clouds overhead drew in to fog up the moon. A lone fence glinted in the waning light, serving as a barrier between two parties.

On one side, nine individuals lumbered and hulked, bulging biceps and too-full pecs warping their tight clothes and stretching it to fit their Adonis-like figures. One young man, with shoulder length brown hair greasy and crowned with a black bandana, sat back against an old rusted Ford. He had an arm crossed over his midsection while his other hand cradled a bottle of something wrapped in a brown paper bag. Eight other individuals mulled about in various styles of punk dressings- cut off sleeves, dark clothing, and self-done tattoos on exposed flesh. They were paired off into four groups of two as they sparred, half-growling and half-cackling jokes at the expense of each other as they grappled and wrestled for sport. Their fighting was half-hearted and never seemed to go further than grappling and knocking one another down.

Their leader, the guy with the bandana, cut out a healthy belch and tossed his beverage. In turn, his lower-ranking companions hooted and jeered.

A typical night out for these local hoodlums.

Of course, on the other side of the fence were two individuals: a blonde and a redhead, both intruders upon the scene before them.

Mello spared a sidelong glance at the redhead before giving a jerk of his head in the direction of the other group. "These guys are classic anarchists; they call their team Fever Pitch. They don't believe in a fair fight, so be careful." He paused for a moment to roll his shoulders and neck, seeming to work out any kinks before speaking again. "S'go," he said simply, and that was all the warning he gave before he was off, rushing forward and leaping at the chain-link fence that rattled on impact. Threading his fingers through the wire-mesh, he held his weight long enough to grab the top bar of the fence, pulling himself up and slipping over to land in a crouch, metal crowbar in hand held awkwardly more between his fingers than against his palm. He shifted his grip to get a better hold, stepping up and clearing his throat to gain the attention of the opposing party.

Matt bit his lip as the situation fully sank in, his bone-teeth digging into his lip just hard enough to cause discomfort. Then, taking a breath, he opted to join the blonde. He took a few steps back and pulled his Katar from his belt, holding it in his dominant hand- his left one. Closing his eyes and breathing deep to steel his resolve, he lunged forward and jumped; his right hand caught the top bar of the fence and he easily slid his body over it with all the grace of a gymnast. Mid-jump, his thumb compressed the lever on his Katar and split the single blade into three as he landed, knees bent and body low. He distantly noticed how his blades shone in the light while the majority of his body was cast in shadows; the contrast grabbed and held his attention for a fraction of a second before he returned his focus where it was needed.

The leader of Fever Pitch straightened his posture and heaved up his shoulders, painting a scowl on his face as he tried to amp up his ability to intimidate; every muscle in his body seemed to tense up. "Punk ass bitches," he seethed, baring his teeth that seemed too large for his thin-lipped mouth. His own icy gaze caught the blonde's and he let out a gruff sound of discontent. "We kicked your ass already. Back for more?" His snarl morphed into a grin that revealed an empty space between his incisors -a gap where his front teeth should have been- any sincerity in his alleged mirth was questionable. "And you brought a friend," he added, "How cute," he teased, voice low with something akin to venom.

The eight lackeys by then had stopped their wrestling, all turning their attention to the intruders, muttering and smirking and laughing at some private joke they all seem to be clued in on.

Standing at full height and squaring his own shoulders, Mello tapped his crowbar against the palm of his free hand in jest of threat before altering his stance and taking the bar in both hands, positioned as if he were a batter stepping up to the plate. "Nine against two?" He muttered between clenched teeth. "I kinda like my odds," he added. His eyes seemed to both darken and gleam, lips pulled into a strange snarling smile, brow creased and drawn into an expression of ferocity. His breath seemed to quicken on its own accord, taut muscle twitching beneath his flesh in anticipation as excitement rippled through his entire being.

Eying the spectacle, a strange feeling of urgency wrenched its way through the redhead who stepped up beside the blonde once more, arm outstretched and Katar tight in his grip. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it, instead pulling his lips back to reveal his gristly teeth as he wrenched back an arm, ready to strike with his blades at any moment. He forced himself to remain calm, heartbeat steady and resolve firm. He had to be there for Mello. Numerically speaking, the odds weren't in their favor, cockiness and vanity be damned.

The leader of Fever Pitch chuckled darkly. "Two kids, a crowbar, and a silly looking claw? We got this. Snaps, you, disarm! Defend! Fuck 'em over!" He jerked his head in the direction of one of his own boys and gave a demanding look that met no resistance.

Then, a young man -one apparently called _Snaps_\- with a shaved head and too many facial piercings to count barreled over, one wide and callous hand swinging wildly as he made an effort to knock the crowbar from Mello's hand.

Mello swiftly dodged to the side and rounded on his foe, crowbar striking Snaps in the arm and causing him to cry out through gritted teeth.

Injured arm pulled instinctively to his chest, Snaps heaved back and slammed a wayward kick to Mello's ribs.

Mello stumbled from the impact but regained his footing with little effort. Teeth bared, he reeled again, the metal of his crowbar flashing against the rays of moonlight.

Matt stepped back, his own stance poised and ready in case he was needed. As much as he wanted to help, this fight was not his and he would not interfere unless absolutely necessary. His grip on the H-bar of his weapon tightened instinctively and his thumb quivered near the lever that would shwick the blades; he tested the sensitivity again, pulling the blades together and releasing them again. And again. _Together... Release... One blade... Then three. One blade, three, one, three._ He kept his distance from the others, his attention divided between Mello's fight with Snaps and the other lurking gang members that were caught between being attentively silent and jeeringly encouraging.

Seconds turned into minutes, time lapsed into something thick and almost tangible that seemed to weigh the fighters down as if they were wading through a thicker atmosphere, almost but not quite as dense as water.

Mello had struck Snaps multiple times and dodged almost every attempted attack on his own person; he did so with uninhibited grace, landing each blow to Snaps on a limb or in the chest, never striking his head or face or anywhere below the belt. He aimed to wound and warn, not to kill. Not to punish. He aimed to draw out the experience as his own breath turned into gasps of excitement and his snarl turned into a lighter expression akin to something gleeful.

Revenge hardly seemed to be the thing he was after. This fact was only further articulated when Snaps landed a bruising fist to Mello's cheek, and Mello fell back with a bark of laughter followed by a wince of pain.

"Everybody gets one!" Mello mused loudly, composing himself and side-stepping another swing. He grinned as he gave his weapon an unnecessary twirl, came around and behind his opponent and tapped him on his denim-clad ass in a joking manner.

Snaps let out an indignant yip as he juked, turned and caught the crowbar in his palm.

For an immeasurably short amount of time, Mello and Snaps both stood stock still, each gripping an end of the bar and trading glares, neither wanting to budge as they waited for the other to make a move. This pseudo-stalemate lasted seconds but it felt like a small eternity.

Mello, brash and impulsive and impatient as fuck, was the first to break the silence. His hand still gripping tightly, his gaze fixed, he just barely managed to repress his grin and blank his face into a serious expression, brows drawn and jaw tight, as he spoke: "Y'know, the way you hold that bar makes you look experienced in pole-play."

Snaps visibly faltered, eyes wide and face pulled into a scowl as he slackened his grip and jerked away. "I-I'm not a fag, if that's what you-"

Mello ignored the other's words, pulling the crowbar back into a firmer grip. He looked his weapon over in appraisal before releasing an approving sound. "Almost as long as my dick," he joked, inwardly rejoicing in the expression that his words had caused to cross Snap's face. "You look constipated," he muttered, readying a swing.

Matt found himself stepping back, shoulders sagged and expression lax; he watched with ever-lessening apprehension, his stance anything but tense. His thumb notched against the lever and pulled his blades into a single spit-edge point and his shoulders further slumped. Watching the fight, his once aching and clenching gut that coiled and twisted and churned from stress and agonizing guilt was now settling into something of ease. Watching this scene, his mind slowly emptied and allowed itself to fully absorb what was going on.

From his assessment, the blonde wasn't trying to truly harm his opponent, rather he was toying with him. He was attacking with more amusement than malice as he swiped the crowbar into the back of the other teen's knees and made him trip in an almost comedic manner. Then he offered a taunt, baiting his opponent.

Matt held back an almost-laugh as it all played out; for the first time, he could see the appeal in what Mello wanted: the sheer pride and grace and feinted-naivete that came with this one-on-one tryst.

Mello's eyes were alight as he seemed to thrive from his actions. As Snaps returned to his feet, the blonde threw the entirety of his weight at the larger punk, slamming the crowbar horizontal across his throat as they collided with the ground and gave an exchange of 'oof' grunts. Holding the crowbar against Snaps' throat and applying enough pressure against the windpipe to stifle breathing, he held his position until Snaps' eyes slipped closed and he passed out. Finally, Mello got shuffled around and up; he had finished this foe off and announced it by placing a heavy boot to his chest, holding him in place as he spun the crowbar in his hands rhythmically with a show of expertise. He was just showing off now, chest heaving with his heavy breaths as he pulled the bar to a hard stop, the pry-end pointed downwards at an angle. "Who's next?" he asked, cocky smirk in place.

The leader of the gang growled. "Mouth, Hark, go," he said through clenched teeth.

On cue, two stepped up. The one called Mouth had an impossibly wide grin that took up over half his face and could easily remind one of a Muppet; his legs were long and his frame was sleek though his calves were thick, implying some form of endurance training that involved running. The one called Hark had wide shoulders set on a thin frame- he looked like an exaggerated action figure with his scrawny legs and too-big biceps and bulging deltoids; he was the kind of meat-head who probably couldn't do much more than simple addition in terms of mental math.

Mouth raced forward and picked up a small handful of rocks, throwing one in Mello's direction before running to circle him, showing off speed that would rival the best Track runner as Hark clambered forth with a grunt and swung his arms like an angry ape. Mouth continued tossing another and another pebble until his hand was emptied.

Mello ignored the flying pebbles that either missed or pinged as he crouched, grip tightening on the weapon as he kept wary of both opponents' movements. One was fast; the other was nothing but brute strength on toothpick legs...

Matt watched, suddenly anxious at this two-on-one shift, biting his lip with his faux teeth, so intensely focused on the fight before him that he didn't feel the pointed bones stabbing into his bottom lip and drawing blood.

Mouth was the first to strike, almost gliding as he closed in on Mello and twisted his body with acrobatic skill and landed a swift kick to the blonde's gut, causing him to double over and back up a few paces.

Hark was there next, large fist hulking towards Mello's winded form. Slow but harsh, meandering and decisive.

Panic exploded in Matt's gut and stars danced behind his eyes. He acted on instinct, thought no longer present as rushed into the mix. Looking over Hark's large mass and slim lower body, he saw the legs as a point of weakness and attacked accordingly, ramming his head into the brute's hamstrings and knocking him forwards like a top-heavy child's toy.

Hark stumbled and flailed his arms like a pinwheel, catching his balance at the last moment. But Matt wasn't done. The redhead lurched and dropped down, doing a baseball slide towards Hark and tangling their legs together as he drew to a stop; then with a firm twist of his own hips, Hark's legs went out and sent him toppling over like a wailing tower.

Hark flailed and belted out his anger as he pounded the ground with his angry fist before scrabbling to his feet; Matt kept his focus and compressed the lever on his Katar, the blade separating into three.

Mouth, seeing the redhead interfere, changed tactics. Ignoring how the blonde wheezed and clutched at his abdomen, he made a break for the redhead and swiftly kicked him in the back square between the shoulders, sending him forwards and onto his stomach. Matt hit the ground hard, Katar slipping from his grip and sliding out of reach as his hands scraped the asphalt. His body trembled and he reached for his weapon, heart racing.

Hark was less than a foot away...

Just then, every gang member encircled the small group before closing in, imposing.

Mello by then had caught his breath and found himself away from Hark and Mouth; instead he was paired against the leader. He wildly golfed his crowbar at anyone in range, more or less to keep them at bay as he tried to reinstate the fairness of of numbers in the fight. As far as he was concerned, the leader of Fever Pitch was his priority. He didn't really give a shit about the lowly underlings; fighting them was like child's play... and at this point, he was starting to get tired of playing. His gaze flicked towards his fallen companion and he felt compelled to let out a cry of: "Dog Bite, get up and fight!" Done playing games, he stepped over one fallen punker and slammed his bar into the leader's head- once, twice, THREE times, each time harder than the last. With little hassle, as unceremonious as it was, he'd knocked the bandana-wearer out cold. It was decidedly anticlimactic, but Mello just didn't care; he was no longer having fun. With the redhead's safety on the line, his tactics and priorities changed. Wasting no time, Mello next landed a solid kick to Mouth's groin before spitting a thick wad of phlegm at him. Swinging wild and hard, he fended off a few other seemingly faceless individuals and watched them back off slowly before turning his attention towards Hark.

Hark had pulled the redhead into a crushing hold, his arm gripping and tightening around the younger's neck and cutting off his air supply.

Mello willed himself to be calm as he stared.

"One more step, Blondie, and I'll snap your little friend's neck," Hark threatened.

Mello narrowed his eyes and took half a second to assess the situation. The leader was down. Mouth was on the ground. Snaps was dealt with and unconscious. A few others were off to the side, bruised and wary but willing to step in if necessary. Matt was defenseless in the grip of Hark. Taking a deep breath that coated his lungs like ice, Mello shook his head and knelt down, bending his knees and slowly lowering himself. "I'm putting down my weapon," he said, tone even. "Let him go." Slowly, so slowly, too slow for his own liking but with the justified intent to make no sudden movements, he let his fingers release the crowbar. Then he cautiously began to rise and erect his posture. "I'm defenseless," he said, arms rising with his palms facing outward in jest of surrender. "Your fight is with me. Let Dog Bite go."

"Dog Bite?" Mouth ground out, voice slightly high pitched and face still scrunched up in agony. "F-Fuckin' Mutt!" he shrieked, eyes widening as he craned his neck to look at his brutish comrade. "H-Hark! The redhead's with the Mutts! Don't let him go!"

Hark acknowledged Mouth's words with a glare and a grunt. Regarding Mello, he snorted. "Your friend 'Dog Bite' isn't much of a threat. I'll let him go... if _you _take his place."

Mello bared his teeth before opening his mouth to say something nasty, but a thought occurred to him. His eyes darted around and an idea came to mind. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. "At least let Dog Bite breathe. When I know he's okay, I'll take his place."

Hark shook his head. "No negotiation. Boss made it clear that Fever Pitch don't negotiate with your Kennel Corp."

"We ain't that stupid, Blondie," Mouth said, finally getting up but walking stiffly.

"No," Mello said calmly, nerves jumping beneath his flesh and hairs standing on end, though he made an effort to visibly concealed his unease. "Look." He kept his arms crossed as his gaze went towards the crowbar. His enemies followed his gaze. Mello moved his boot towards the bar and kicked it further away. "I won't fight. Just let him go. He's a KID! For fuck's sake, look at him!" He said, voice rising. "He's not with me." At his last sentence, his voice took on an almost desperate tone as concern flashed in his eyes.

"Bah, you called him _Dog Bite_," Mouth spat. "Your crew is known to give fucked up names like that."

Mello rolled his eyes and let out of huff, exasperated. "Fuck you. You won this fight. Just... let him go."

"He had a weapon," Hark said, jaw squared.

"And now he's defenseless!" Mello snapped angrily. "I know you don't believe in a fair fight, but you can't involve an innocent kid in-"

"He ain't innocent," Hark said. He paused for a moment, releasing his crushing grip on the redhead in favor of grabbing him by the front of his hoody. "He's got blood on him. Had it before he even stepped in to fight. I don't think it's _his _blood either."

Mouth quirked a brow- if one could call it a brow; it had been shaved and the entire ridge was lined in shiny metal hoops. "Good call, Hark," he praised, grin splitting his face. "Dog Bite dies. Tonight."

Mello wanted to retort, to yell, to scream, but once he thought it over, he couldn't deny the facts; Matt _did _have blood on him, and it was splattered. Something in his stomach grew heavy like lead and he let out a frustrated growl. "He's not with me, okay? Let the fucker go!" Without waiting another second, He made for the crowbar and grabbed it hastily, throwing it as hard as he could in Hark's direction.

Hark saw the futile attack coming; he snarled and pushed Matt to the ground before moving to the side and widely avoiding the bar. "Missed me, Blondie. Was that a last-ditch effort?" His voice was full of amusement. "I ain't that smart, but I know _NOT _to throw a weapon away."

Mouth shook his head, eyes wide and body tense. "Hark, MOVE!" he shrieked.

Hark had kept his attention on the blonde, not realizing that once he'd released the redhead, Matt had quickly commando-crawled over to grab the Katar.

Matt got to his feet, eyes steeled and lifeless as he clutched the horizontal bar and played with the lever. Three blades became one, then became three as he lunged. Holding the weapon in his left hand, arm bent so that the blade was held near his right shoulder, he leapt at Hark and slashed the blades down hard through his enemy's forearm, cutting through flesh, tissue, and muscle and just barely missing any arteries. "C-Clean," he said with a wheeze, eyes appearing glassy and distant yet trained on the blood that began to flow from Hark's arm. But Hark didn't have time to do anything about the wound as another slash cut into him, this time on the thigh. And another, across the chest, and finally... Matt punched the blade forward and the tri-blade ripped through Hark's abs, searing into his flesh and muscle and tangling in his organs, slicing. Severing.

Twisting the Katar, Matt plunged it a little deeper before pulling it out.

Hark came down, hard, body flailing and a roaring cry tearing through him.

As Hark laid with his back against the asphalt, Matt moved to straddle his waist. With a shaky hand, he pressed the blades to Hark's throat, adding just enough pressure to break the skin and call forth a thin streak of red. He pulled the blades down the collar bone and kept going. He shredded the shirt and the flesh beneath it before peeling the clothing aside and getting a better look at the damage he'd done.

Mello watched with wide eyes and parted lips.

Mouth was beside him, speechless, both hands raised to cover his own flapping but soundless maw.

Hark was bleeding out, no more sound escaping him as his head thrashed back and forth and his body grew weak.

Matt's shoulders shook and his face took on a strained expression. "C-Clean," he choked out, holding back a sob. "_Contains... Sodium hypochlorite. Avoid c-con-contact with eyes... skin... and mucous membranes. Do... not... mix with... acids, ammonia, or other... h-household chemicals. T-Toxic... gas... may form_," he choked out the words, reciting blindly the words on a WARNING label he'd read too many times to count. He dipped the Katar blades into Hark's stomach and ripped it back out, taking flesh and innards with it. He dipped the blades again, eyes filling with tears. "C-Clean... P-Poison control... Sodium... hypochlorite... _Ah_!" With a startled cry from the redhead, the blades were entwined with the large intestine as he ripped and tore at whatever he could. His slow and deliberate stabs grew numerous and fast as he shredded the guy's insides, almost hollowing him out. More blood spattered his hoody and soaked his pants. Finally, a wretched sob broke loose, loud and wailing, as if _he _were the one dying. He gasped and hiccuped and cried, pulling the three blades into one and then collapsing on top of his attacker-turned-victim. Eyes closed tightly, he whispered: "M'sorry, momma." His body trembled with the force of his sobs.

Mello watched, chest constricting. He hadn't intended this to happen. He thought he'd knock everyone out and leave. Thought he'd make a game of it. With the redhead involved, he thought it would be a little more fun. Now, he wasn't so sure. He stole a sidelong glance at Mouth and quietly said: "You and your friends should go. Before the cops show up. Because they will."

"Wh-What about H-Hark?" Mouth asked, voice strange and tight.

Mello shook his head. "Your choice. Either take him, or leave him for the cops to find. Me, I take care of my own," he said, tone clipped as he moved over to Matt. "Hey, Dog Bite, c'mon." He lightly rested a hand on the redhead's shoulder.

Matt didn't move. He just cried and practically clung to the corpse beneath him.

"Dog Bite," Mello tried again before shaking his head. "Matt, we need to go." He didn't wait for a response this time; he grabbed Matt by the back of his hoody and roughly yanked him away from Hark. "We need to go. Now." He let Matt go, expecting him to get to his feet and follow, but instead... Matt just collapsed in a boneless heap of blood and tears.

"C-Clean," Matt said after a long moment, his cries quieting. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the blonde. "B-Bleach. C-Clean. Disinfect. Protect. Need to... Please?" He looked down in dismay, staring at nothing, eyes taking on a distant glaze. "Momma... would be... not proud, would she?" His words were whispered, tone broken and fragile.

Mello closed his eyes tight but said nothing. He breathed deeply several times before finally opening his eyes. He could hear sirens in the distance. He couldn't be sure who'd called, but the members of Fever Pitch were carting off their unconscious comrades and the police were coming. Mello shook his head abruptly and moved to grab his crowbar. Once it was in his grasp, he glared at Matt. Seeing the helpless look on the redhead's face, his own expression softened. "Dog Bi- erm- Matt, it was either _you _or _Hark_; you did what you had to. Don't beat yourself up about it. Okay? We need to go. Come on." With that, he slipped an arm around the redhead and forced him to stand.

Matt's legs were like spaghetti, weak and wobbly and not wanting to support him, but with Mello's help, he was able to take a few steps and regain his strength. Once he was able to walk on his own, he pulled away from Mello's assisting arms and mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" Mello asked?

"I-I need... to go... h-home," Matt answered.

Mello stopped for a moment. "Home to see your mom? Y'gotta go back to your mom, right?" He sighed heavily. "S'fine, I guess. Just- Don't you wanna clean up first? So your mom doesn't see all the-?" He vaguely gestured to the redhead's crimson-stained clothes.

Matt shrugged but said nothing.

Mello hung his head, shoulders slumped. "C'mon. We'll head to the Kennel, and you can get cleaned up. After that, just... pretend this didn't happen. Okay?"

Matt shrugged again, wordless.

The moon overhead was almost completely blocked by clouds, darkness nearly engulfing everything in sight.

But from the shadows, a pair of red eyes could be seen. "Mello, that was quite a show," a seemingly disembodied voice said eerily.

Mello completely ignored the voice, slinging an arm around Matt to offer comfort.

But the voice wouldn't let up. "New playmate? Taking him to the Kennel? Does L know?"

Mello finally growled his answer to the hidden figure. "He's none of your concern, so fuck off, Beyond."

A dark haired figure stepped from the shadows, pale skin almost glowing, ghostlike. "But I'm so bored! And you got to have so much fun tonight with Fever Pitch... Plus, if I heard correctly, you just said you were going to take your friend to the Kennel."

"So?" Mello glared harshly; he was in no mood for games.

But Beyond persisted. "I'm going to the Kennel too. I'll come with."

Mello turned to face Beyond, clutching the crowbar. "I'll hit you," he threatened.

But Beyond laughed madly, almost cackling. "And I'll cut you!" he chimed, lips spread wide to accommodate a toothy grin, amusement evident in the way his body swayed and he skipped closer. "Play nice, Mello." He made a snapping gesture by clicking his teeth together before grasping the crowbar and wrenching it away from the blonde. He carefully wiped the bar in his sleeve, removing much of the fingerprints and rust-colored spatters and smudges of evidence before giving it a hard toss. He watched enthusiastically as it whirled off into the distance. Then he turned his red gaze onto the two younger boys. "Mello, introduce me to your friend."

...

* * *

**So, rival gangs: Fever Pitch and Kennel Corp. More to come. Next up, most likely some quality MxM time. Nothing too crazy, I think. I dunno. This chapter gave me a hard time though.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **New Breed: DOG BYTE

**Summary: **Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **After the last chapter, I wanted to write something lighter.

...

* * *

_"Beyond, this is Matt -though I like to call him Dog Bite. Dog Bite, my deranged friend here is Beyond Birthday, but you can call him pretty much any obscenity you'd like."_

_"Call me B," Beyond corrected._

_"Bitch!" Mello hooted, amused._

_The redhead showed no interest in talking, instead keeping silent, gaze distant and heart heavy. Under his breath, he gave the occasional whimper or recital of cautionary words that could be found on most industrial cleaners._

_Growing bored, Beyond had waved a hand in dismissal and announced that he was going to make a food-run and would be back at the Kennel later._

...

The Kennel.

A warehouse with boarded windows and a rundown exterior, dumpsters out front overflowing with trash and a sidewalk lined with worn motorbikes and parts and stray tools.

Giving no explanation, Mello held the redhead's hand and led him to a back entrance. The door was unlocked and opened with a loud screech.

Once inside, colorful flashing lights illuminated most dark corners, lights from large bulky arcade games that lined the walls. One overhead naked bulb was in the center of the ceiling, the bulb fairly dim and unimposing as it illuminated Foosball, air hockey, and pool tables.

This was merely the first of several segmented areas, each branching off and serving its own purpose.

"Welcome to Kennel Corp," Mello said with exaggerated gusto.

The entry room filled with games was filled with a dozen or so people, male and female, children, teen, and young adult. A few spared glances towards Mello and Matt, but no one commented or gave any sign of cognition as they simply turned back to whatever activity that had previously held their attention.

Matt didn't even bother to look around, his own eyes vacant, his hand still within Mello's grasp.

Noticing the redhead's lack of awareness, Mello sighed. "I should... show you to the bathroom," he said, tone disheartened. "Unless you want a tour... or something," he added lamely.

Matt looked at Mello and blinked once, twice, three times. The fog that had settled over his eyes seemed to clear and his head whipped about on his neck so fast that Mello almost worried he'd give himself whiplash. Matt's lips parted and he breathed deeply. "Wh-What's going on?" He slurped at built-up drool; then he pulled his hand from the blonde's grasp and brought it to his own mouth, slipping his fingers passed his lips and wiggling his denture partial, carefully jarring it loose and pulling it from his palate. Then he slipped it safely into the pouch attached to his belt.

Mello watched Matt curiously. "So... you have normal teeth after all," he stated obviously, mostly to chaff the silence that had started to build after the redhead's question went unanswered.

Said question was asked again and an additional one followed. "What's going on? Where am I?"

Mello's lips formed a tight line before he resigned to answer. "You... helped me fight a gang called Fever Pitch. I brought you back here to clean up. So you wouldn't have to go home covered in... blood." His usually confident demeanor seemed to escape, leaving him almost nervous in the presence of the other. "Remember? You... had a bit of a meltdown."

Matt nodded and looked around, trying to take in all of his surroundings.

"Should I show you to the bathroom, or...?" Mello trailed off, unsure.

The redhead shrugged, then lowered his head and sighed out the words: "I'm just... tired, I think. So tired. Miss my mom."

Nodding in understanding, Mello, reclaimed Matt's hand and guided him through a doorway, down a hallway and into another room. This room was smaller than the game-room. It was mostly empty, save for a large pile of blankets and pillows strewn about the floor haphazardly.

"You can rest if you want," Mello said, letting go of the redhead's hand and moving to sit amidst the pile.

Cautiously, Matt followed the blonde's lead, stepping further into the room and slowly settling onto the floor next to him. "So," he said after a moment of silence. "What is this place?"

Mello looked around and shrugged. "The Kennel. And this room's the bedroom."

Matt frowned, brows knitting together in confusion. "Hn?" He looked about. The room was cold and empty. Just a big cement box with a hard floor covered in quilts and comforters and sheets and various pillows.

"Bedroom," Mello repeated. "It's not much," he confessed, voice lowering an octave. "But it's home." A small gentle smile graced his features. "We all live here. We eat, sleep, and play here. At Kennel Corp, we're all family." He paused, his smile faded and was replaced by a hybrid of serious and solemn. "No, Kennel Corp is _better_ than family."

Matt squinted his eyes, frowning, trying to wrap his mind over what the blonde was saying. "I'm... lost," he admitted quietly.

Avoiding eye contact, Mello shifted uncomfortably before taking a breath and deciding to elaborate. "They -_outsiders, other gangs, cops, stupid people_\- they call us _Mutts_." His teeth clenched and his expression turned sour. "_Strays_," he amended with a sharp nod. "We all had homes once. Moms and dads. We had it... Then we didn't. One day, we just had nothing."

Matt frowned and placed a hesitant hand over one of the blonde's, attempting to offer comfort.

At this encouragement, Mello continued. "My mom was... a cop. She kept the city safe, always carrying a gun and going on patrol. Dad wasn't -ugh- Dad's profession wasn't so legal, but it wasn't bad. He just... sold stuff. And things... got... out of hand. A stupid drug lord in the neighborhood didn't' like competition. He found and shot my dad. At my home. Right in front of me. Mom was just coming home from work, wearing her uniform. That... douchebag... shot my mom too. I couldn't do anything. I didn't know what to do. I called the cops as soon as I could... And, yeah, they came, but they didn't do anything. Paid off by the drug lord, they tried to cover up the murders altogether. I was sent away, to a foster home. It wasn't a good home. I ran away, came back here, and met Beyond. Beyond introduced me to Kennel Corp. Basically, we live together and fight the bad guys. It's not great, but it's more than I could ever ask for. It's home. It's stable. It's family that has my back and wants to do good things."

When Mello finished his tale, he felt drained and finally realized just how tired he himself was; his eyes were wet and his heart felt lighter; it was as if a weight had been lifted. He glanced at the redhead, mainly to gauge his reaction.

The redhead had managed to lean against Mello during the bout of auto-narration, and his eyes had slipped shut; the Katar dagger was slack and barely gripped between his fingers.

With a small smile, Mello noted that Matt had fallen asleep. Not bothering to second guess himself, he decided to let the redhead sleep. A small part of him considered that the redhead's mom might worry, but a bigger part of him was glad for the company. "Rest up, Dog Bite," Mello said softly, taking the dagger and setting it aside. He wrapped his arms around Matt and carefully coaxed the redhead and himself to lay among the blankets. Arms around Matt, he pressed his face between Matt's shoulder and neck and let his own eyes slip closed, unperturbed by the tangy scent of copper and musk.

No, Mello wasn't supposed to bring outsiders into the Kennel, but as far as he was concerned, Dog Bite was just as much of a stray as anyone else he could call family. And if there were consequences to his actions, he'd face them later. For now, sleep was tugging at his consciousness, lulling him into a peaceful slumber. And he was all too happy to oblige.

...

* * *

**Short chapter is short, but I wanted to do something simple here.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **New Breed: DOG BYTE

**Summary: **Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Another short chapter. No Matt or Mello in this, oddly. But I like this chapter. And I should be able to get back to MxM in the next one.

...

* * *

Dark soulless eyes peered around as their owner lurked with slow purposeful steps: his stride almost cautious. Shoulders hunched, he stepped further into the room, barefoot as his feet moved between masses of warm blanket and chilled concrete flooring, soundless.

He stopped mid-step, foot raised before he pressed the arch of one foot to the ankle of the other, curling his toes and using his nails to scratch a patch of dry skin.

Stilling himself, he truly took in the room, closing his eyes and acknowledging the musky scent that always seemed to linger and varied only slightly from day to day; he took in the sounds of breath being drawn and expelled, blankets ruffling, feet and hands sliding along the floor due to fitful sleepers.

Everything was empty, cold, cement. A stone box magnified until it was big enough to comfortably hold his crew.

Because, the barrage of young men and women were definitely his crew. His family. His own living system of support and stability.

Several members of Kennel Corp were out and prowling about the city as per their nightly whim, while quite a few others were occupying the game room and just as many -if not more- were curling up on and under the piles of blankets, body to body, some draped over one another in an effort be either warm or comforted or some cross-breed of the two.

The way they all piled together, there was a sense of closeness that stretched beyond physical boundaries. People could only get this close after forming trusting bonds and a fair amount of honest care towards one another. This sort of comfort, too basic and pure for the shoddy and malignant outside world, could only be shared and understood amongst themselves.

Everyone in Kennel Corp knew this to an extent: knew how to love like family and rely on one another with a broader intensity: knew to put faith in each other where the rest of the world had failed and rejected them.

The leader of this group, a dark-haired and dark-eyed onlooker, kept his eyes closed as he mentally tuned into the sheer number of varying breaths and gasps and wheezes that fell through the lips of his companions. With only his ears, he assessed the number of occupants in the dank room. He stepped over a few bodies and made his way to the far side of the room where he could be just beyond the throng of unconscious _strays_, pressing his back to the wall and sliding down to sit with his knees drawn. His gaze empty and dark rings of insomnia pooling beneath his eyes, he steeled himself and honed his focus, unseeingly taking everything in: the cesspool of bodies entangled on the floor in jest of familial bonding.

Like a litter of pups, fresh from the womb and desiring little more than survival.

This dark-haired observer twitched his fingers and kept his dark clouded eyes focused on nothing, using his other senses to detect any and all signs of even the slightest movements.

A shadow crept into the room seconds before its tangible counterpart.

With a silent breath, the observer noted the intrusion. His lips pursed, eyes narrowed, ears listening intently.

The intruder's appearance was not unlike the observer. Both with dark hair; both with simple attire, similar builds. A stranger might assume them to be related by blood rather than by choice.

_But choice was always so much stronger than blood._

This intruder, with impossibly red irises gleaming in contrast to his pale skin and dark mane, ghosted in with light and easy steps that displayed his catlike grace behind his shadow, dropping onto all fours and preying between the sleeping masses of youngsters.

"L," the intruder said with a polite whisper and a smirk. "Good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same, Beyond," the observer sardonically greeted in turn, dark owlish eyes never seeming to need the moisture that could be provided by blinking. Those eyes, so dark, so empty, so... _sightless_. Not just in the dark, but equally useless in the light, though he refused to let it be a hindrance. His own sight was long gone and hardly a memory. "Beyond, you were out late," he said with a dry tone.

"L, I was-" Beyond attempted to soothe, but his conquest ended as surely as it had begun. Anything he'd wanted to say to his fellow Kennel-dweller pulled a vanishing act before it could even be processed. Then, his gaze dropped to the sleeping form of a familiar blonde that rested easily. Beyond slipped onto his knees into a kneeling position and lightly ran his fingers through blonde silken locks. "Mello looks so peaceful when he sleeps," he mused, a grin stretching between his lips.

"Don't wake him, Beyond," L scolded knowingly; his voice was monotonous but a hint of warning was there, somewhere between the way his breath hitched and his brow creased and his jaw tightened. "Let Mello rest."

"But I like him," Beyond said with a petulant pout, fingers continuing their gentle assault. He paused his ministrations and whipped his gaze back to L, red eyes wide and mouth gaping; his expression spoke of excitement, as if he'd just remembered something important. "L, have you met Dog Bite?"

L noted the sudden change in tone and the hitching breaths that Beyond exuded. He withheld any prospect of inquiry or answer, though with pursed lips he offered a soft grunt and raised a shoulder, not quite shrugging.

Beyond's eyes seemed to light up, wide and bloodshot as his face split with a manic grin. He gestured to the sleeping redhead next to the blonde. "Dog Bite," he said simply. "Killed a member of Fever Pitch last night."

L spared a curious glance in the general direction of Beyond, though nothing met his dead optical nerves. Still, he hunched forward, as if he wanted to get a better view.

Beyond caught on and eagerly began to describe him. "He's a redhead. Very young. Pretty, pale, with freckles. Big eyes." He paused and his voice while soft boasted with enthusiasm. "L, you'd love his eyes, so wide and expressive." His fingers flexed. "If I could, I'd cut them out and let you hold them. I know you'd love to _feel _them..." He trailed off, his voice getting softer and then drawing out with a strange unbidden desire that even L could not place. With a firm shake of his head- as if to jar his thoughts into a proper line of thinking- Beyond spoke again, tone firm. "Dog Bite is an outsider, L. Mello took him in, named him, and brought him here."

L's shoulders drew up, tense, at the word '_outsider_.' Though he'd only heard the word, it left a taste of venom in his mouth. "Under what grounds? Outsiders are forbidden. Why would Mello-?" His eyes darted back and forth in panic while his body remained rooted to the spot. "Outsiders are not welcome," he finished sternly, gaze hardening and fingers curling into fists, nails biting into the flesh of his palms.

"Mello was outnumbered. Nine to one. Nine to two if you count Dog Bite," Beyond said eagerly, his gaze intensely focused on the older male. "As far as I know, Dog Bite poses no threat to the Kennel."

L's shoulders slumped and his spine arched; he rested his head back against the wall, eyes slipping closed and throat bared. "Kennel Corp is a haven... for strays. Mello would not bring in someone who doesn't belong," he said decisively.

Beyond opened his mouth to speak, though what he would have said was hard to guess. His usual talkative manner seemed to slip away as his head dropped, as if shamed. "I would give anything to restore your sight, L," he confessed with a harsh whisper. "And I'd give even more to restore your faith in humanity." With those words spoken in undeniably raw passion, Beyond left his post and crawled over the mass of sleeping individuals and made his way over to his superior and Kennel-mate. He sidled beside L, so close that their shoulders touched.

With a low voice, L spoke. "What I lack in sight, I make up for in understanding. I founded Kennel Corp to spare people from the animosity I've endured."

Beyond was quiet for a long moment as the air seemed to thicken. Slowly, he craned his neck to rest his head against L's shoulder. He breathed in the other's scent and just focused on the darkness, on the multiple eruptions of breathing that held the entirety of the cell-like room in rapture. He focused on L's presence and calm exterior, knowing deep down that surely L must be afraid, at least a little. "What's it like," he found himself whispering, "to be blind?" He hadn't meant to ask the question, but in the comforting heat of the other male, the question slipped.

L was quiet for a moment. That moment stretched into several, and Beyond was almost certain that L was going to ignore the question.

But L did speak, after an immeasurable amount of time.

"Imagine... the world as it is," L's voice held something deep, something precious and almost childlike despite the way that it was equally pensive.

Beyond closed his eyes and mentally painted his mind with the details he already knew by heart. The cement walls, patchwork blankets, and ragtag individuals he considered family. Against his will, he found himself smiling. "It's nice," Beyond said. "It feels like _home_ to me."

L gave a single sharp nod before adding, voice straining... "Now, imagine it's all ripped away and replaced by blackness. You can open and close your eyes all you want, but the image never comes back. You can only feel the wall against your fingertips, the floor beneath your feet. You can hear the breathing and rustling... but you'll never _see _it. Never know the difference between hair and eye and skin color. And one day, you forget what color looks like. Nothing has color. Everything is either hard or soft, cold or warm. Never blue or red or anything."

Beyond kept his eyes closed as he listened intently, and something inside him clenched and ached. Then, before he could stop himself, he turned his head just a little and pressed his lips to L's neck in a gentle gesture of intimacy.

L gave no response to encourage Beyond, but L didn't push him away or verbally chastise him either.

...

* * *

**More to come. I just wanted to get a blind L in there and show that there's more to Beyond than what I've already shown.**


End file.
